From Scottish Dialect
by Lew Caccia

Whenever I think, some notion
in the cloud or other confluence
that floats the mooring will seize
upon the wonderful convenience,

That bluster, “To duck, to dodge,”
has danced into its corner so few
adherents. Like a hollow barrel
the empty drum thinly porous,

I keep seeking that latent horizon
beyond a rip where a stone was cast
skimming that tide. It wasn’t easy to
wander back, when the cause gave way,

Henceforth as the middling struts
while the attendant speaks in tenets,
the graylag flock north of the Solway
knowing their ways instinctively,

Should such bold paths be excoriated,
our valorous sense refused by the heap,
that bluster will have taken root. Then
again, it serves as motivation,

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